


bruises and the like

by Miracule



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: A long day, An inspector and his lad, And a hospital bed, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:40:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9433409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: Post-Canticle. Morse asks Thursday to fill in the blanks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> because who could possibly resist writing a coda to this episode? not me. as always, drag me in the comments, matey.

Morse examines the mottled, finger-shaped bruising along the inside of his upper arm.

Apart from that, there isn’t too much to suggest that the lad had been in any sort of trouble at all. There are some purple spots on his knees; a small bruise under his left eye where somebody knocked him hard with a wayward elbow. But it isn’t very noticeable, and it could certainly be worse.

Morse’s brush with death had left him relatively unscathed, save for any lingering psychological effects, _perhaps_. The young neurologist on duty had put it that way... “Perhaps.”

“W-Who did... these?” Morse finally asks, holding his arm out for Thursday to see. His tone is more anxious than accusatory; more uncertain than anything else.

Thursday leans forward to look, but he doesn’t have to. “I did,” he answers, not really feeling up to answering the imminent _why_.

But the question doesn’t come.

“Oh,” says Morse, blinking rapidly. He turns to look out the window, frowning into the low afternoon sun.

In the vacuum of the ensuing silence, Thursday listens. He hears chatter from the nurses’ station down the hall; the mechanical hum of machines in the next room; the tick-tock of the old clock on the wall. But he’s really only listening for Morse.

Morse in silence doesn’t sit right; it doesn’t bode well.

“Why don’t you finish getting dressed?” Thursday prods. He tries to make it sound like a reasonable, helpful suggestion, but in truth he’s anxious to hear the lad’s voice. He wonders in hindsight if he should have just said sorry.

Morse, who had jumped a little upon being spoken to, nods jerkily. “Right, sorry. I was just... I can’t remember it. Most of it, anyway.”

 _Good_.

“That doesn’t matter,” Thursday tries to assure him. “The worst of it’s over now.”

“What was I doing that you had to...?” Morse trails off. His voice reflects none of its usual quizzical intonation—rather, he mutters the words as if he doesn’t actually want to know the answer.

But Thursday himself has a little trouble recalling the relevant circumstances. Were those from when Morse had tried to flee the room through an open window? Or perhaps from when he’d fought the paramedics with such keen desperation that he’d nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to twist out of Thursday’s grip?

“You were scared,” says Thursday, honestly. It was vague, but for the most part, it was true. “You put up a real fight when they tried to take your vitals.”

Morse looks taken aback at the thought of fighting anybody. His lip curls slightly in disgust. “I suppose it makes sense,” he admits, scratching at a fingernail. “I’m sorry I did that.”

Thursday’s heart sinks. That’s not what he wanted to hear; not at all. But it doesn’t surprise him—after all, this is Morse, and Morse can’t see the forest through the trees.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he insists. “She drugged you. No part of that’s on you, Morse.”

“Yes, but I—” That line of thought stutters to a halt. His eyes are wide and glassy and betray no small degree of shame. “Did I do anything to _you_? Or to anyone, for that matter?”

Thursday wants to kick himself. He should have seen this question coming somehow. It’s got Endeavour Morse written all over it—all self-loathing searching for something tangible to bite into. It always comes back to what he could’ve done; what he did _wrong_.

“Don’t start with me, lad. You didn’t have the strength.”

As a matter of fact, Thursday _had_ sustained a few scratches and a bruise or two from Morse clawing at him, trying to pry himself loose as Thursday hauled him from the windowsill. After that, Thursday hadn’t chanced letting him go, but struggling to keep skinny, squirming, sobbing Morse in his arms had been one of the most challenging moments of his entire career.

Morse doesn’t seem convinced. He works at a thread poking out of the hem of his undershirt.

“Get dressed, Morse,” Thursday commands, but it’s the sort of voice he might use with his Sam, not a DC. “There’s no use sitting there feeling sorry... Not when there’s work to be done.” That’s what Thursday tells himself every morning, anyway.

He watches as Morse stands on shaky legs, looking awfully pale. The lad sways a little and Thursday’s on his feet before he even realizes what’s happening. Morse just stares dumbly at him, having easily steadied himself by placing a palm on the mattress. “Sir?”

Thursday sits ponderously.

Only Morse could scare him like that.

He would never admit it to the lad, but back at the house, he’d been loath to let anybody near Morse. Even when he’d all but exhausted himself—finally allowing the paramedics to maneuver him down the stairs—Thursday had refused to stay behind and question Emma Carr. Strange hadn’t protested; he just nodded grimly as Thursday told him to find out what she’d given Morse, no matter what.

Morse bends to tie his shoe and moans a little, hauling Thursday back into the present. “It’s nothing,” he mutters, catching the inspector’s stony gaze and turning a bit pink. “I feel a little dizzy is all.” He finishes tying his shoes and unrolls himself slowly, screwing his eyes shut as he straightens.

The clock ticks away on the wall, punctuating Morse’s deliberately timed breathing.

“You need Win to fix you up a good hot meal,” says Thursday, not letting himself get caught up in thinking of side effects, perhaps, and other untold horrors.

Morse opens his eyes and offers a pained half-smile. “I’m sure,” he agrees. “What wouldn’t that fix?”

“You doubting Thomas, Morse. It fixes everything. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Both know that this is just a game; that Thursday will watch Morse like a hawk and that Morse will pretend to be relatively well-adjusted until he goes home to drink half a bottle of Grant’s.

But it’s a game that Thursday is determined to play, if it allows him to be close to the lad for another few hours or so.

He isn’t ready to let Morse disappear just yet... Not while the pain in his joints reminds him of kneeling on that hardwood floor and praying to a god he’d sworn off long, long ago.

xx


End file.
